Skin and Flesh
by Scarllett83
Summary: Everything that Camille did was for her. Every tight shirt and short skirt she wore was for her— every wink, every flirty smile, it was all to protect her (based on a Harry Potter tumblr post, featuring Monaco in the place of Fleur Delacour and Seychelles as her younger sister Gabrielle).


**Just a bit of background information:**

**For those of you who don't know, in Harry Potter a _veela_ is a "semi-human magical being; beautiful women with white-gold hair and skin that appears toshine moon-bright." (definition via wikipedia)**

**This was inspired by a tumblr post () about Fleur Delacour from Harry Potter, which talked about the daker side of being a veela. **

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Everything that Camille did was for her. Every tight shirt and short skirt she wore was for her— every wink, every flirty smile, it was all to protect her.

When Camille was young, she never quite understood what it meant to be a veela. She never understood what her mother meant when she would speak of the wandering gazes of strangers to her father, describing them as lustful, a word not yet known to Camille.

At age thirteen, Camille begins to notice it all. At school, boys her age watch her and whisper amongst themselves, all sly smiles and searching eyes. Eyes that scour her light skin and silky hair, taking in every inch of Veela they can get their eyes on.

She doesn't think much of it until she's fourteen, sitting at the dinner table with her family and one of her father's friends. Wine glasses sit out on the table, and the smell of alcohol hangs in the air. Camille fidgets in her seat, feeling someone's gaze on her. When she turns, she finds one of her father's friends staring at her.

His eyes are hazy and lust-filled. Beneath the table, one of his hands touches her thigh, and Camille freezes. Tears burn in the back of her eyes, and when the hand begins to move further up and tug at her shorts, she quickly excuses herself from the table and takes off running up the stairs.

Later that night, her mother comes to her, and all Camille can do is cry. She cries and cries, while her mother whispers soft French lullabies and threads long fingers through her hair. Her mother gives her a sad smile, and through her sobs Camille hears her say, "You'll get used to it, life as a veela."

Camille thinks, faintly, that she doesn't want to get used to it.

At age fifteen, Camille dresses in shame. She wears clothes two sizes too big, just a little bit longer, just a little bit thicker. She drapes layer after layer over herself, hiding the body beneath it all. Her hair falls in curtains over her face, covering, hiding her. She never learns that it is not her fault the way others look at her, and so she continues to dress in shame, blaming herself for it all.

Only once does she dare to say "Stop looking!" only to be met with laughter and cruel looks. She never bothers again, after that, merely walking with her head low and her gaze on the ground. She accepts the endless stares and relentless flirting as life. Some small part of her still hopes things will change, despite knowing they never will.

It's not until she's sixteen that she sees the eyes slide right past her— over her, and to Michelle, who's barely turning twelve. They're out for dinner one evening, and the same friend of their fathers shows up, while their parents are off at the bar.

This time, his breath doesn't smell of alcohol when he brushes his fingers beneath Michelle's chin and a finger across her lips, murmuring something inaudibly, with eyes too bright and a grin too wide.

Michelle freezes, her eyes wide with fear and panic as they flicker back and forth, looking to the turned backs of their parents and then to Camille. In that moment, all Camille feels is fury— Michelle looks so small, so fearful and scared. So innocent, looking to Camille for help.

Camille reaches for her drink, and next thing she knows, her father's friend is roaring in anger over his soaked shirt and she's sprawled across the floor with her arms above her head. Michelle crouches next to her, eyes still fearful and wide.

Their parents come running. Their father curses his friend in a slew of French, telling him to leave. Their mother helps Camille up off of the ground, and checks both of the girls for injuries.

That night, when all is silent and the house is still, Camille steals her mother's credit card and goes to the mall. She comes back hours later with several bags of new clothing.

From that day on, Camille no longer wears baggy clothes or too-long shirts. She wears her skirts rolled up, shirts just a little too tight, and hair braided away and out of her face. Slowly, things start to change. She no longer feels ashamed, and it's not long before she finds herself using her charms to her advantage, to play the object they want her to be.

From now on they will only look at her, never at her sister.

Every lust-filled look and catcall, every pair of hands that touches her porcelain skin and every low whisper in her ear. She endures it all, never so much as whispering a word of discomfort. She takes it all in stride.

She walks down the hallways at school with her head held high, hearing whispers from all around her, boys staring and taking in every last detail. All they can talk about is how her legs look in that skirt, or her breasts in that shirt. All they see is sex, an object used for their pleasure rather than a person. They see her beauty, and they think they know her. They see her body, and think that's all there is to her.

And she does it all for Michelle. If she continues to show more and more skin, continues to wink and flirt and laugh and smile, just maybe she'll be able to spare Michelle. Just maybe she can take it all on herself, so Michelle will never have to deal with the same horrors.

She'll sell away her soul and body, her mind and her heart to keep Michelle safe, to spare her the terrible things that come with life as a veela. She'll show every last bit of her skin and flesh if she has to, if she knows it will keep Michelle safe.


End file.
